Jackson
by Layla Reyne
Summary: Damon and Elena are musicians whose bands are on tour together. After an impromptu duet, their label wants to see more – on and off stage – making for a tense (and surprising) holiday season. AU/H; One-shot for LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange.


**Jackson**

**By: Layla Reyne**

**Summary:** Damon and Elena are musicians whose bands are on tour together. After an impromptu duet, their label wants to see more – on and off stage – making for a tense (and surprising) holiday season. AU/H; One-shot for LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange.

**A/N: **In answer to the LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange Prompt from Kim (kimbuhlay aka ohmyninadobreva):

_Elena and Damon are celebrities (co-stars, singer/songwriters who've collaborated, people of note who have worked together in some capacity) who despise each other behind-the-scenes, for whatever reason (that's up to you). They're forced by their respective management teams to volunteer together in a homeless shelter during the holiday season for publicity, and every eye will be upon them, media and fan alike, so they have to convince the world they're the best of friends, maybe more... until the façade becomes reality for the both of them._

How about we mix things up a little with some fun and comedy… Channeling my inner Kristen Ashley for this one. If you haven't read her books, you should! For those that have, enjoy the Easter Eggs in here ;) _**HUGE ROCK-CHICK THANK YOU**_ to Sandra (dutchtreat) and Chelley (chellethebelle) for introducing me to the KA-universe and also for their invaluable time, assistance and encouragement during this year's A2A Exchange. You ladies are the best. (Hope you like it, Kim!)

**Disclaimer: **The original story herein belongs to me. The characters and other things from The Vampire Diaries are not mine. Likewise for all Boston landmarks, buildings, etc. All due credit to the rightful holders.

* * *

"I hate him! How could he do that?! Why would he do that?!"

The "_he_" in question was still on stage, playing a final song with his band, Steel. They were closing the show with a cover of Johnny Cash's "25 Minutes to Go," which was appropriate, since I was gonna kill him, though I didn't think it'd take that long.

Seeing as how I couldn't exactly wring his neck in front of a max capacity crowd of Bostonians at the House of Blues (they paid to see a concert, not a homicide), the craft table backstage took the brunt of my rage. With a single swipe of my arm, I cleared it clean off, sending bottles of water, cans of Pringles, tins of Danish butter cookies and the two little Christmas trees someone had put at either end flying. Then, for good hysterical measure, I lifted my cowboy-booted foot and aimed for the table's edge, giving it a hard, swift kick to topple it over.

"Elena, calm down!" Caroline shrieked behind me, her voice several octaves higher than usual, which was saying something since it was already pretty damn high.

"I will _not_ calm down," I growled, rounding on her as my eyes scanned for something else to punch, kick or throw.

That's when Martin, my vintage acoustic guitar (yes, I named it, albeit not very creatively), bounced against my ass. I'd slung it across my back during the worst (best) three minutes of my life.

Target acquired.

Hulk-smash activated.

Reaching both of my arms behind my head, I grabbed the guitar two-handed around its neck and pulled it over my head, shrugging violently out of the embossed, leather shoulder strap. I twirled it in my hands, working up momentum, while looking for the best surface for maximum impact.

"Elena, no!" Caroline shouted, eyes wide with panic and arms outstretched, placating palms opened toward me. "That's your mother's guitar; one of the few remaining family heirlooms that survived the fire. You _do not_ want to do this."

I faltered for a half second before anger beat out sentimentality. "Don't care," I snarled, my eyes lighting on a spare stack of amps.

Perfect.

"Elena," Bonnie entered the fray, stepping between the stack and me, clearly having read my intent. Her voice, unlike Caroline's, was calm and even. There was a reason why Bonnie, the steadiest of us all, played rhythm for our band, Mulholland, and Caroline, the craziest, played lead guitar. I was sure the latter would be jumping around on stage well into our fifties, if we were lucky enough to still be playing in thirty years.

"You do care," Bonnie continued, drawing my attention back to her. "I know you're pissed. You have every right to be."

"Pissed?!" I screeched. "I'm not pissed, Bonnie. I'm fucking furious. How dare he, and in front of all those people!"

"I know," she replied, taking a cautious step closer. "What he did was out of line, but you do not want to take it out on Martin."

"I don't care!" I roared, chest heaving and arms straining, as I continued to hold the guitar aloft.

"Oh for Christ's sake, just let her smash the damn guitar, if that's what she wants to do," Rebekah offered in her lilting accent, sipping a glass of champagne as she came to stand next to Caroline. Drummers were always the coolest. Mulholland's was no exception, though Matt (a childhood friend of mine and our stage manager) had mellowed her out a bit.

"Thank you," I clipped, huffing a stray strand of hair out of my face. "And go get the rest of that bottle," I told her, nodding toward her drink, as I began to swing the guitar over my head again. "I'm gonna need it."

"On it," she winked, the click-clack retreat of her high-heeled boots echoing over the applause I vaguely registered coming from the stage.

"Alright then," I said, inhaling a deep breath and deciding to smash my guitar on the stage steps behind me for lack of a better target, no thanks to my band-mates who were still blocking the amp stack.

I spun but didn't get very far.

"Don't think you want to do that."

The fucking bastard smirked right in my face (devilishly handsome, I might add), as one of his big hands captured both of my wrists and the other wrapped around the guitar's neck, just above mine.

Hulk-smash aborted.

My insides quivered at our close proximity – nose to nose, chest to chest, hip to hip – and my traitorous eyes strayed to his lips. How could they not after what just happened on stage? Arms giving way, my body started to melt into his, but then his smirk grew wider. I looked up into his clear blue eyes, made impossibly brighter by the rock-star charcoal eyeliner he wore during concerts, and found them dancing with amusement.

A different kind of fire shot through my veins. On this night (unlike a certain other night), anger added desire to its growing pile of victims.

With my arms still trapped above my head, I did what Johnny sings at the "18 minutes to go" mark. I laughed in his face and spit in his eye. Then, I took it one step further, as any good woman would do, and kneed him right in the nads.

Releasing my hands, he doubled over, groaning, as Stefan ran up behind us, catching my falling guitar. Bending at the waist, I brought my lips to his ear, making sure he could feel the heat of my breath and hear the amusement in my voice.

"_Totally_ better than smashing Martin."

Turning his head, he looked at me with tears of pain in his eyes and croaked, "Elena, please."

"Fuck off, Damon," I sneered, straightening and grabbing my guitar from his brother.

Stepping over to my girls, I tagged the bottle of champagne Rebekah held out to me and tipped it back, taking a long, victorious swallow. Then, bottle in one hand and Martin in the other, I cast Damon a withering glare, turned on my heel and strutted confidently out the back doors of the House, adding a little extra sway of my hips just to torture him further (if his balls could even still feel anything).

It wasn't the homicide I was hoping for but it would have to do.

* * *

"Rose wants you to call her."

"Go away," I groaned, blindly throwing a pillow in the direction of my brother's voice. I grabbed another one and covered my head, blocking out the morning sun (and reality).

That second bottle of champagne had been a bad idea.

It wasn't my intention to get wasted last night. I got back to my club level suite at The Ritz-Carlton, tipsy enough from the one bottle I'd finished in the limo to hopefully pass the fuck out. I toed off my boots and stripped out of my jeans and bra, leaving on my tank and undies, washed the stage make-up off of my face, and brushed my teeth. Then, I made a critical (read: life-slash-sanity-threatening) error. On my way to the bed, I stopped at the desk, opened up my laptop and checked my email (because, let's face it, I'm an idiot).

Along with fifty messages from my Aunt Jenna (the few I opened went something like this: I so knew you two were hooking up. I can't believe you were holding out on me. Be prepared for the Jenna Sommers Saltzman third degree, missy!), there were another two hundred emails – within less than an hour of the event which shall not be named – from Rose, our A&R rep at the label, various members of the press and our gonzo fans. I didn't even open them. I figured they went something like this… Label: This is genius, make it work (or, alternatively, what the fuck did you just do?!); Press: Confirm or deny that you and Damon Salvatore are in a relationship; Fans: OHMIGOD, OHMIGOD, OHMIGOD!

For the sake of the smidgen of sanity I had left (and we were talking peppercorn size at that point), I highlighted them all and hit delete. Then, idiotically (as established), I opened my web-browser and promptly ground my last peppercorn of sanity to smithereens.

When my homepage loaded (Rollingstone, because I was the lead singer of a successful rock band and wanted to stay in the loop on all things music-related), the main headline read – "Jackson Duet Turns Steamy for Rock 'N Roll's Will-They-Won't-They Twosome" – in bold print, over a picture of me in Damon's arms, on stage under a ball of mistletoe, locked in a heated kiss.

I slammed my laptop screen closed, called room service and ordered a cheeseburger and another bottle of champagne. Granted, not the classiest move (I should have ordered filet mignon or something more dignified), but I was in serious need of comfort food. More importantly, I needed to forget.

_Everything_.

The feel and taste of Damon's mouth, the warmth of his strong, hard body pressed against mine, how much I missed (obsessed-over) everything about him, about us. Dom-induced oblivion with a side of greasy beef had seemed perfectly rational at the time.

Not so much anymore.

"Elena," Jeremy gently scolded, using the "dad" voice he'd perfected over the last two years with his and Bonnie's daughter, Felicity. At least it was better than angry band manager voice. "You can't hide out in here all day."

"Why not?" I mumbled into the sheet, adding another pillow.

I felt the bed dip near my hip, followed by first one and then the other pillow being removed and tossed aside. I covered my head with my arms, feebly trying to ignore the world.

"It's noon already, Elena," he said, slipping toward angry manager voice. "You have to be at the homeless shelter in an hour and then after, we're all headed to Ric and Jenna's place for Christmas dinner."

"All?" I squawked, flipping over and sitting up with the covers clutched to my chest. My head and stomach revolted. It was all I could do to hold it together, but I was _not_ going to be one of those rock stars that threw up all over her hotel suite at the Ritz. Nuh-uh. I'd already suffered enough embarrassment to last a lifetime on this tour.

"Yes, _all_," Jeremy answered, looking at me like I'd grown a second head. "_You're_ the one that invited Caroline to family dinner. What was she supposed to do? Leave her husband in the hotel room? And whether you like it or not, with Stefan comes Damon. Sorry sis, but this one is all on you."

"Mason and Tyler, too?" I asked, referring to the other members of Steel.

"Yep, them too," he nodded. "And Matt and Bex."

I scowled.

"Don't look at me like that," he glared. "You're also the one who wanted to play Boston at Christmas so you could be with family. We can't leave the rest of them out in the cold now just because you and Damon can't decide whether you love each other or hate each other."

"Hey!" I scoffed indignantly, shoving his shoulder. "Whose side are you on anyways?"

"I am not stupid enough to answer that question," he chuckled, rolling his eyes as he got up off the bed and headed toward the connecting door between my suite and his and Bonnie's. "Get dressed, Elena. And call Rose."

"Traitor," I shouted after him, earning a middle finger salute as he pulled the door shut behind him.

My brother was right, of course. Eighteen months ago, when we were negotiating tour dates (no easy feat with two headlining bands, who, at the time, were total strangers), I was the one lobbying hard for Christmas shows in Boston.

Jenna and Alaric had moved up here five years ago, right after the freak electrical fire that destroyed my childhood home in Mystic Falls, Virginia (bad wiring, the cops said). There was nothing keeping them there anymore. Mulholland was already gaining popularity and touring year-round and, with their first child on the way (my too-cute for words cousin, Lucas), they wanted to be close to Ric's family. And I wanted to be close to them, for once, during the holidays.

What I didn't count on was my best friend, Caroline, quickly (as in lightening fast) falling for and marrying (as in rock 'n roll shotgun style) the lead guitarist for Steel, Stefan Salvatore.

I also didn't count on falling for his brother, Steel's frontman, Damon Salvatore.

Flopping back down on the bed, I stared at the ceiling and contemplated how royally fucked up my life had become over the past year.

* * *

Damon and I flirted brazenly from the get-go – suggestive remarks, unnecessary touching, eye sex, mental undressing. But he was a player; everyone knew it. He made no bones about it either, hand picking his groupies for the night while still on stage, two and three girls at once sometimes. I was determined not to let him play me.

How does that quote go? The road to hell is paved with good intentions…

Well, my road ended (in a fiery blaze of glory) about a month into the tour, the night of our first stadium show at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California. Mulholland had never played a venue so huge, and it was a hometown show for Steel, the Salvatores and Lockwoods both hailing from nearby (very affluent) Thousand Oaks.

(Some probably thought we were local too, given our band's name, but "Mulholland" came about because Caroline, Bonnie and I had spent countless hours dissecting David Lynch's masterful mind-fuck of a movie, Mulholland Drive, until Matt brought Bex to practice one afternoon and she explained it to us in five minutes. We had our drummer and our band name.)

The crowd was amazing that night, wild with enthusiasm, singing our songs and standing the whole set through. When ours was done, me and the girls watched the guys play from the wings, passing around a bottle of Tequila and singing along to all of their songs that we'd learned by then. The whole time, my eyes were glued to Damon – disheveled black hair, dripping sweat onto his gray V-neck t-shirt, dark wash jeans that fit snug in all the right places and black leather motorcycle boots with just a hint of silver (oh, and lest we forget the guyliner, the ultimate ovary killer). I'd never been more entranced by him than I was that night, seeing him so totally in his rock star element, performing in front of his hometown crowd. He was flawless; they all were.

Sometime during Steel's last encore, we were whisked offstage to the pressroom for photos and interviews with the local music reporters. Steel had done their press circuit already, before the show, so by the time we were done, everyone was backstage and the party was in full swing.

I was looking for a quiet place to make a quick phone call to Jenna, wanting to share my excitement with her (I knew she would probably still be up with their newest munchkin, Liam), when I slipped into an unmarked dressing room. With my head down, thumb scrolling through my contact list, I didn't realize the room was occupied. Not until the notes of Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line" hit my ears, in the last voice I expected. Stepping around the bank of lighted vanities, I found Damon sitting alone on a black leather couch in the back part of the room. His eyes were closed as he strummed an acoustic guitar and sang the Man in Black's famous love song.

As if he could sense another presence in the room, Damon's eyes snapped open and locked with mine, his voice and fingers faltering.

"Don't stop," I said softly, not wanting to disturb the mood or the music.

He picked up the song again, never dropping my gaze, as I moved to sit next to him on the couch. It was like he was singing to me, but something about the way I found him, something behind his eyes, told me this was about something more.

"That was beautiful," I told him, after he finished and set the guitar aside.

"It was my mom's favorite," he replied quietly, twirling his guitar pick through his fingers. "I always play it for her when I'm in town. Makes me feel close to her still."

Whether it was the moving tribute to his mother, his uncharacteristically vulnerable admission, or his stunning blue eyes, slightly wet at the corners, I couldn't say for sure, but the next instant my lips were on his and I was kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Temporary insanity at its finest.

By the time we broke for breath, I was sitting astride his lap, shamelessly grinding against his arousal, as my hands crawled beneath his t-shirt, exploring the expanse of well-defined muscles that had been tempting me for weeks. Damon's hands weren't idle either. One was down the back of my pants, inside my underwear, fingers digging into my ass each time I rocked my hips, while the other was doing all sorts of wonderful things to my breast.

Forehead resting against mine, he looked up at me with hooded eyes, his blues a full shade darker than I'd ever seen them. "Let's get out of here," he whispered huskily, to which I nodded without a second thought.

Needless to say, things escalated quickly from there – in the limo, in the hotel elevator, in his suite. I'd never had so many orgasms in one night of my life (nor in so many different positions). I'd had other lovers before but none of them made my body sing the way Damon did. I was officially ruined for all other men. He was just that good.

And he was gone the next morning.

I woke up in his bed alone, deliciously sore, to find a note saying he'd gone to breakfast with some friends, to order room service on him and that he'd see me at the show that night. Turned out by "see me" he meant he'd say "hey" as we passed each other in the wings, pretend like the night before never happened and go back to the same hotel room with two barely legal groupies.

Fucking bastard.

I'd been played, _good_, and the worst part of it was that I knew better. It still hurt like hell, though, to be used and discarded so cavalierly, to have a taste of perfection for one night and then have it ripped away. But I wasn't about to let Damon or anyone else see my dismay. I straightened my back, held my head high and added a heaping dash of bitchiness to our usual banter.

Damon and I, it turned out, weren't the only ones hooking up that night. Thankfully for my best friend, Stefan was just as smitten with Caroline as she was with him.

Fast-forward ten months to the aforementioned shotgun wedding. It wasn't the June wedding Caroline had always wanted, but getting married over Thanksgiving weekend last month in Hawaii, where it was a balmy eighty degrees, was pretty damn close. She also couldn't afford to wait until June, if she wanted to be married before the impending spring arrival of their baby girl. Hence the shotgun part (and the Pringles and Danish butter cookies at every show).

Hawaii was also the site of my second bout with temporary insanity. Pesky little devil.

At least that time I went down with a fight. A nice, big, loud one – on the beach outside our hotel, during the wedding reception. My reaming Damon a new asshole for being a lousy best man who hadn't lifted a finger to help with any wedding prep and a worthless human being who only cared about himself was caught on numerous cell phones.

It went viral within an hour.

During that hour, I had two chart-topping orgasms, courtesy of said lousy best man and worthless human being. I had three more in the hours that followed. So Damon wasn't _completely_ worthless. This time, though, it was me who left him at dawn, me who brushed him off the next day as if we hadn't spent the night before tangled up in each other, me who has been fighting him off every day since.

I don't know what happened in Hawaii, but since then Damon hasn't picked a single groupie out of the crowd, he dotes on Caroline and plans his niece's musical future with Stefan, and, here's the real kicker, he has flowers delivered to my dressing room before every show.

Which brings us to last night… Boston, a packed House of Blues and a crazy, festive set up that included balls of mistletoe and oversized ornaments hanging from the stage lights. Both bands where on fire, feeling the holiday spirit and leaving it all out there before a much-needed week off. I'd been shocked as shit when one, Jeremy didn't wrangle us into the pressroom during Steel's last encore, and two, Matt directed the stage hands to swap out Damon, Stefan and Tyler's electric guitars for acoustics, as Mason retired from his drum kit to a stand-up piano that had been wheeled out on stage.

What followed was a special tribute set, full of Johnny Cash standards, dedicated to Damon and Stefan's mother, Mary Salvatore, who had passed away twenty years ago to the day.

That's when I realized it hadn't all been a play, and that I was heartbroken for these two men who had lost their mother at such a young age, on Christmas Eve no less. Jeremy and I lost our parents ten years ago in a car accident, so I felt their pain, deep. I understood what losing someone so important did to a person, the hole in your heart that never really healed. Tears welled up my eyes that I quickly wiped away, but not before Damon caught sight of me in the wings. He smiled softly and launched into "I Walk the Line," only this time I was sure he was singing it to me, too. Three songs later, Matt appeared at my side, shoved Martin into my hands and pushed me out on stage, just as Damon was announcing "a very special duet with Mulholland's own, Elena Gilbert."

I stared at Damon in furious, wide-eyed confusion; we hadn't planned any duet. Then, he played the opening chords of "Jackson," and the musician in me took over. It was an iconic duet – fun, flirty, testy – all of the things Damon and I were, too. For three minutes, I became one of my idols, June Carter, hand picking my guitar, circling the stage with Damon, and pulling out a twangy voice I hadn't used since I was a kid singing along to my grandma's forty-fives. As I belted out June's last verse, I swung my guitar across my back and sang right into Damon's face, smiling full on. Damon did the same on Johnny's final lines, his smile just as wide as mine.

We were nose to nose, standing directly under a ball of mistletoe. I should have seen it coming – the full Johnny.

Damon's arms shot out, one wrapping around my waist and the other curling behind my neck, jerking me forward and slamming his lips onto mine. The crowd in front of us went wild, the guys behind us carried the beat, and I got totally swept up in the moment, rising up on my tiptoes and winding my arms around Damon's neck, kissing him with everything I had.

It was magical. It was embarrassing. It was tabloid fodder for every gossip, music and news blog out there.

Honestly, that whole backstage temper tantrum I threw afterward was aimed at myself as much as it was at Damon (and the unfortunate craft table). I'd made a fool of myself so many times where he was concerned. A fool for love. And I was tired of being made to look like a fool.

* * *

Jeremy was waiting for us when we arrived at the homeless shelter for runaway teens where we were serving Christmas lunch and handing out gear. By the look on his face, I could tell "patient dad" was long gone and "angry band manager" was in full force and effect.

Bonnie squeezed my knee with a mumbled "Good luck," and then folded out of the SUV behind Rebekah and Caroline. Taking a deep breath, I followed them out and braced for impact.

"You didn't call Rose," Jeremy chided, coming directly at me.

Of course I didn't called Rose. Just like I didn't check my email, didn't surf the web and didn't look at the papers. I was _not_ going to be an idiot today.

Unfortunately, my brother was not big on respecting my wishes. Never had been. Today was no exception. He shoved his phone into my hand and stomped off, following the girls up a set of steps into the shelter. I saw by the display that Rose was already on the line. Bringing it to my ear, I braced again.

"You want to explain to me what that was about last night?" she asked, all business, not even bothering to say "Hello" or "Merry Christmas." Weren't Brits supposed to be nice? I needed the number for the Department of British Manners Enforcement. (And if such a department didn't exist, then Harry Potter should get on that.)

"I don't want to talk about it," I replied snottily. If she was going to be rude, then so was I.

"Like you didn't want to talk about Hawaii? Or Pasadena?"

"How did you know about Pasadena?!" I gasped, eyes bugging out in shock.

Anyone with an Internet connection knew about last night and Hawaii. But Pasadena was mine and Damon's dirty (very dirty) little secret. As far as I knew, there were no reports, no photos, not even the slightest rumor about us hooking up that early on tour. Before today, Rose had never let on that she knew about it either.

"Spies, Elena," she answered, and I could hear a smile creeping into her voice.

"Those spies wouldn't happen to be blonde, would they?" I asked, spotting Rebekah and Caroline watching me from one of the shelter windows.

"Doesn't matter," Rose replied gently. "After five minutes in the same room with you two, I knew where this was headed."

That right there was why I signed with Rose Austell seven years ago. Sure, she was a ball buster, but she was perceptive as hell, wicked smart and unflinchingly honest. Qualities that made a good rep and an even better friend.

"Give it to me straight, Rose," I deflated, leaning back against the side of the SUV. "How much trouble are we in?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you are in a relationship with Damon Salvatore."

"Not!" I snapped, loud enough that I'm sure anyone within a twenty-block radius heard me.

"Then you are in a lot of trouble."

"How so?" I asked, coming unstuck and pacing along the curb, increasingly worried by the direction of this conversation.

"Because the label wants you to be."

_Fuck! _

I was afraid of this. Steel and Mulholland were both on the same label. I remembered how giddy the execs were when Stefan and Caroline got together. Now, the two lead singers… God only knows how many bottles of champagne _they_ popped in celebration last night. It was probably enough to make my two bottles of make-me-forget-champagne seem weak.

"They want more of what they saw last night," Rose went on, as my stomach pitched and heaved. "On and off the stage. Starting with this shelter appearance today."

"Fuck!" This time I said it out loud.

"Damon's on board," she added.

Immediately, my eyes shot up from the sidewalk, searching for my number one betrayer. Sure enough, Damon – wearing that infuriating (sexy) smirk – was leaning against the shelter doorway, his arms folded over his dark blue, Henley-covered chest and his denim-clad legs crossed at the ankles.

"You talked to him already?" I asked Rose, while my eyes remained locked with his.

"He actually returned my calls," she answered, sounding miffed.

Dropping Damon's gaze, I turned and rested both of my elbows on the hood of the SUV, hanging my head in my hands. "I'm sorry Rose," I apologized. It was completely unprofessional of me not to return her calls (or emails), especially when I knew she'd probably spent the last twelve hours covering my ass. And she was a friend.

"Elena, it's fine," she replied, her voice gentle again, all trace of hurt and anger gone. "You're a professional performer. Go in there and perform. Then, take the next week off to decide if you want to keep performing or start living."

"Rose, I don't know if we can pull this off."

What she said next rocked my world.

"He's in love with you, Elena. He has been since Pasadena, maybe longer. He's not the one performing. You are."

Like I said, unflinchingly honest.

"Good luck," she said, and then the line went dead.

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I shoved it in my pocket, took a deep breath and slowly turned back around, just in time to see Damon stalking down the shelter steps and across the sidewalk toward me. He was coming at such a rapid, determined clip that I was sure he was going to kiss me, but when he reached my side, his hand shot out and claimed one of my wrists.

He was afraid I was going to bolt. Smart man.

If he hadn't grabbed my wrist, the chances I'd run were at least fifty-fifty, because I was freaked. I didn't know what to do with all this new information and my brain (and heart) was in danger of short-circuiting at any minute.

Damon was in love with me? He had been since Pasadena? If so, why was he such a jerk the day after and for the ten months that followed? What changed in November? Why did he suddenly stop performing? And perhaps most importantly, was I ready to do the same?

Scratch that previous bet. The odds of me running were more like ninety-ten.

Damon's hand around my wrist loosened and slid down into mine, our fingers interlacing.

"We can do this, Elena," he urged softly, and I had the distinct impression he wasn't only talking about the shelter appearance. I could see in his eyes that same vulnerability that I'd caught a glimpse of backstage in Pasadena.

But I wasn't ready to deal with that yet, so I decided to concentrate on performing now and think about living later.

"Showtime," I replied, plastering a big, fake smile on my face.

My heart lurched when I felt Damon's hand go slack in mine.

So much for not being an idiot today.

* * *

"Elena, let me in!"

"Go away, Damon!" I returned loudly, shouting through my hotel suite door.

"I'm not going away!" he hollered, pounding on the door. "I will stand in this hallway and continue to make a scene until you open this goddamn door."

Pacing, hands fisted in my hair, my eyes searched the suite for a place to hide, just in case he broke the door down. I wasn't seeing a whole lot of options.

"We have to talk about why you left, Elena."

I froze, my chest tightening, panic rising up my throat. "No we don't!" I screeched.

We did not need to talk about how Damon was amazing at the shelter today. How he helped the guys sort through our used gear and match each kid with the perfect instrument. How he taught a thirteen-year-old orphan to play a few chords on the guitar he'd just been gifted. How, when one of the press members that had been invited asked about the status of our relationship and requested a repeat of last night's performance (all of it), Damon calmly replied that today was about the kids and the shelter, not us.

I didn't know how to feel about his response. I admired him for keeping the focus on the shelter, was grateful that he deflected the attention away from us, was still trying to wrap my head around the possibility of an "us" at all, and was a teensy bit (read: more than little) disappointed that there wasn't a repeat performance of last night. I was definitely starting to circle the drain toward insanity again, and that line between performing and living was getting pretty fucking blurry. If living meant I got kind, patient, respectful Damon – the same one who had inhabited the skin of playboy Damon for the past month – it would be everything I'd wanted since I'd first laid eyes on him (and everything I'd told myself I'd never have after Pasadena). But I was scared it was all an illusion. That the minute I got what I wanted, it – _he_ – would vanish the next morning. I didn't want to go through that hell again.

Two hours in, I couldn't take it anymore. I was drowning in self-doubt and mixed emotions, my brain and heart at war over the notion of an "us." The ten percent finally won out, and I ran. I excused myself to the ladies room and like the coward that I was, I crawled out of the window, hailed a cab and paid the driver a hundred bucks to get me back to the Ritz on the Boston Common as fast as possible.

Apparently, Damon was hot on my heels.

"Elena, please," he called again, followed by a thump that I assumed was his forehead hitting the door. "Please just open the door and let me say my piece. Then, if you want me to leave, I will."

The weariness in his voice was my undoing. Smoothing down my mussed hair, I walked to the door and cautiously opened it to him. The next instant, Damon's hand was in my belly, my back was slammed against the wall and Damon's lips were on mine, prying them apart and kissing me deeply. My hands fisted in his shirt, holding on for dear life as my knees gave out from under me. Before I could react any further (whether that would have been a slap or a moan, I couldn't say, but rest assured, it would have been an epic battle of anger versus desire), Damon tore his mouth away and stepped back.

Without his body pressing mine to the wall, my hands in his shirt were the only things holding me up. But that didn't last long either. Damon wrapped his hands around my wrists and pulled them away, waiting a moment to make sure I was relatively steady, before letting them go and walking into the living area.

Casting a quick glance at the door, I made sure that he'd closed it all the way and then followed him into the living area, a hand to the wall for balance. "What was that?" I breathed.

"I don't know how this is going to go," he said, setting on one end of the couch. "If it doesn't go my way, I had to have one last taste."

My knees wobbled and I'm sure I flushed ten shades of red. Thankfully, Damon had his elbows on his knees and his head hanging in his hands, staring at the floor, so he didn't notice my tomato face.

"I know I was a jerk," he started after a moment. "But you need to understand that leaving you in that bed in Pasadena was one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"I _don't_ understand," I replied, shaking my head. It had seemed pretty easy to me.

"How much has Caroline told you about my family?" he asked, dropping his hands and looking up at me.

"Nothing," I shrugged, circling the coffee table and coming to sit on the other end of the couch. "She said it wasn't her place."

"Hmm," he murmured with a hint of a smile, eyes going back to the floor. It wasn't the answer he'd expected. Silence from by best friend (a notorious gossip from the time she could string together a sentence) hadn't been what I was expecting either when I'd first asked about the Salvatores' backstory. It was clear, though, that she wasn't going to divulge their secrets, and I didn't want to cause a rift between her and Stefan (or between me and her, for that matter), so I let it go.

When Damon didn't continue and it seemed he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, I placed a gentle hand to his shoulder, wordlessly encouraging him to go on. To my surprise, he grabbed ahold of my hand and used it to pull me close. He kept it firmly grasped in his as he began to tell his story.

"You already know that my mom died when I was seven and Stefan was four. My father died then too – at least on the inside. Things got ugly at home, and it stayed that way until the day he actually died, eleven years later."

"Damon," I gasped, my heart breaking into impossibly smaller pieces for these two boys.

His hand tightened in mine. "I was eighteen when dad died. The one good thing he did was leave me with enough of an inheritance to take care of Stefan. We had friends through the years – Mason, Tyler, others – but neither one of us really let anyone close. It was always just the two of us; we were too afraid to lose anyone else. Until you girls blew into our lives."

Lifting his eyes, Damon shot me a wry grin and brought my hand clenched in his up to his lips, kissing the back of it softly. "The moment I saw you I knew you were special, that you'd mean something to me, and it freaked me the fuck out."

Good to know I wasn't alone in that department. "Welcome to my world."

Damon grinned wider before his smile abruptly died and his eyes went back to the floor, his head bowed. "I screwed up in Pasadena."

My heart seized and my breath caught as he broached no-mans land.

"I left because I couldn't lose you," he said quietly, running a thumb across the back of my knuckles. "And I went back to being an asshole to push you away, to protect myself. Of course it backfired, _spectacularly_, since I'd already fallen for you."

After what he'd told me about his parents, about his and Stefan's childhood, it was what I'd expected (the "couldn't lose you" part) and more (the "I'd already fallen for you" part). Rose had said it, but I couldn't (wouldn't) believe it. Seeing and hearing Damon now, though, I was starting too. I understood why he left that morning, but there was still one thing that was a mystery to me.

"What changed?" I asked, referring to the flip that had seemingly been switched after Hawaii.

"Ironically, it was Stefan and Barbie," he replied, mockingly rolling his eyes. "Everyone thinks I'm the bad brother, but I'd venture a guess that there are more notches in by brother's bedpost than mine."

"Ugh," I said, scrunching up my face. "Too much information about my best friend's husband."

"Only the last one mattered," Damon chuckled. "Caroline changed his whole world. He showed me the sonogram picture the morning of the wedding, and I'd never seen my brother so happy. That's when I thought to myself, if Stefan could be that happy, could settle down and make it work, then so could I."

Leave it to my blonde best friend to proverbially slap some sense into not one but two Salvatores. I definitely owed her a lifetime of babysitting on demand for being a miracle worker.

Shifting on the couch, Damon turned to face me fully and framed my face with this other hand. His thumb lightly stroked my cheek as his clear blue eyes bored into mine.

"I want a chance to be that happy, Elena, and I want it to be with you, if you can forgive me."

I shut my eyes to the overwhelming emotions coursing through me – joy, hope, excitement and most of all, love. Anger wasn't even on the radar. Tears of relief sprung to my eyes, and I felt twin droplets sneak out from under my lashes and race down my cheeks.

Damon's thumb caught the one; his lips against my cheek caught the other. "I'll go," he whispered hoarsely, as I felt his weight leave the couch and his hand start to withdraw from mine.

Eyes snapping open, I took in the pained expression on his face. He'd misread my tears, and thinking they were shed out of sadness, he was going to leave. Clutching his hand tighter, I held him in place and made a declaration of my own, one that could not be misunderstood.

"I love you, Damon."

His eyes went wide and his hand convulsed in mine. I tugged him back down onto the couch beside me.

"I love you," I repeated, this time infusing it with all of the warmth and love I was finally letting myself feel for him.

I was rewarded for my bravery with a searing, soul-shattering kiss that blew every other kiss I'd ever had right out of the water. It was a kiss dreams (and songs) were made of. Maybe I'd write one, after I spent the next week off making love to my man.

But Damon had something to say first. Pulling back slightly, he held my face in both of his hands and spoke the words I'd not let myself dream of hearing from him.

"I love you, Elena," he whispered. "I love you so fucking much."

"I like the sound of that," I replied, smiling brightly, before snaking my arms around his neck and dropping my voice a few octaves lower. "But now I want you to show me."

And show me he did.

On the couch, where he pulled me astride his lap, stripped us both of our sweaters and unzipped my jeans far enough to sneak a hand in. He circled my clit and thrust two of his long, talented fingers inside me, while his other hand unclasped my hot pink and black bra so that he could lick, suck and nip at my breasts. Working in tandem, his fingers and mouth had me spiraling over the edge in a matter of minutes.

Then, on the dining table, where after pulling off my jeans and shredding the matching undies, Damon sat my bare ass on the cold, hard wood and buried his head between my legs. Knees thrown over his shoulders, my heels dug into his back as I ground my hips against his face, chasing another release. His hands slid under my ass, holding my center to him, as he plunged his tongue between my folds, over and over, and when he groaned with pleasure, the knowledge that he loved that taste, that he loved every freaking part of me, threw me into oblivion once more.

Then, in the bed, where I got to show Damon how much I loved him. Slowly undressing him the rest of the way, I kissed every inch of his beautiful body that I uncovered, spending an extra long time with my mouth around his cock. Before he came though, he dragged me up and kissed me so hard that I did even realize I'd been flipped onto my back until he drove inside me. He went slow at first, gliding in and out, building the heat inside me and staving off his own release, until my own bucking hips demanded he go harder, faster. From there, it was a sprint to reach the finish line, screaming each other's names as we climaxed together, before collapsing in a sweaty, sated, well-loved heap.

"We missed Christmas dinner," Damon mumbled after, nuzzling his nose against my neck as he adjusted me beneath him, making sure I wasn't bearing all of his weight.

"Shit," I cursed, pictures of an angry, meat fork wielding Jenna popping into my head. "My aunt's gonna kill me. Should we call them so they aren't worried?"

"I told Jeremy I was coming after you," Damon replied, propping himself up on an elbow, head in hand. "I think they're smart enough to figure out why we aren't there."

"Good point."

"We can still go, if you want, if you're hungry…" Damon offered, using his fingers to tickle my bare tummy.

"Maybe after a nap," I laughed, playfully slapping away his hand. "But if you are-"

"I already had dinner," he smirked, waggling his eyebrows, as one hand slipped beneath the sheet and skirted across my oversensitive flesh.

That one got him a slightly harder slap to the chest. "You're terrible," I groaned in mock outrage.

"But you love me anyways, right?" he asked, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His tone was teasing, but I saw the flash of vulnerability and doubt in his eyes.

"Yeah, I do," I assured him, stretching up to peck his lips before flopping back down on the bed. "Besides, room service has a killer cheeseburger."

"And how do you know this?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, but now you're my idiot," he winked, before giving me a long, sweet (hot) kiss.

"I love you, Elena," he whispered after, as he was tucking his head back into the crook of my neck.

"Promise me you'll be here when I wake up?" I asked quietly, unable to completely hide my own fears and vulnerability.

"I'll be here as long as you'll have me," he smiled against my skin, pulling me closer.

"Deal," I said, kissing the top of his head as my eyelids grew heavy. "I love you, Damon."

"I love you too, Elena."

My last thought, as I drifted off to sleep with Damon in my arms, was that I didn't feel insane or idiotic at all.

**THE END**

* * *

Would love to hear what you thought of this story, Sleight of Hand and Last Christmas and be sure to check out all of the other great A2A stories from this year's #DEHX3 exchange and the participating authors' other works, including Kim's! As my dear friend (corrupter extraordinaire) Chelley says, reviews are love. Be kind and share some this New Year :)


End file.
